“Grab a towel,” Gram said, nodding toward the checkered dishcloth hanging off a hook on her cabinet.
“You know,” I complained, “after the first plate, it mostly just moves the water around. The dishes don’t actually get drier.” She snatched the towel herself and tossed it to me. She had a seemingly endless supply of identical blue and white kitchen towels that rotated through that spot on her painted-white kitchen cabinets. The door looked naked without it—like someone who always wears glasses showing up in contacts. It looks good, maybe, but jarring. Something’s missing. Also, I didn’t really feel like drying the dishes.
“Respect your elders and dry the damn dishes.” The pots and pans were in the dishwasher, which was humming away. The squeak of Gram’s sponge against stemware joined the murmur of voices from the living room to create a soothing white noise.
“All right, all right. Don’t be cranky with me.” We worked in companionable silence for a minute. “You know, it really should be Holly’s job.” Gram looked at me and rolled her eyes at my laziness. “I made the sweet potato pie!” I defended myself.
“You don’t want a couple minutes alone with your grandmother?”
“Not really.” She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t pretend I’m not about to get an earful.” My mom had warned me just before we sat down to dinner that she’d told Gram about Louisa.
“Mom!” I’d hissed, dismayed.
“She wants to know what’s going on in your life. And I’m worried that you’re too interested in this whole thing. Murder!” she added, as if I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “It’s not healthy.” The conversation had ended there, as Grandpa Mac had announced with great fanfare, as he did every year, that we were about to get a master class in “carving a bird.”
“You want an earful—” Gram now warned me.
“I definitely did not say I wanted an earful.”
“—here it comes.” I steeled myself. “What are you doing to yourself, Nora?” I stayed quiet. I knew what was coming, but I didn’t have to help wind her up. “Seriously? Getting yourself mixed up in this investigation?” Gram sighed dramatically. I thought about calling out her dramatics. Teasing her might break the tension I was feeling. Then again, it might just irritate her. I chose silence again.
“Nora,” she continued, her hands working furiously on a wine glass but her eyes on me, “You don’t have to put yourself through this.”
“Gram, I’m ok,” I said, perhaps a bit too emphatically.
“This is not yours to solve. This weight isn’t on your shoulders.”
Gram was Dad’s mom. In another family, maybe she and my mom would have drifted apart after dad’s death. It could have happened here—Mom and Gram liked each other well enough, but they weren’t natural kindred spirits. They worked hard to make sure they stayed connected though, lucky for me. She pushed a stray hair out of her eyes with her wrist, soapy water dripping down onto her large, matronly breasts. Bosoms was the right word for Gram’s chest, I thought, though she would have been offended if I’d actually said it. She would have been a looker in her youth; it didn’t take much to imagine what had attracted Grandpa Mac back in the day. The pictures I’d seen of her were evidence of how pretty she’d been. Ivory skinned and ginger like Dad; like me. Her once bright hair was now faded to a sunset version of what it had once been, but she still had enviably slim hips to offset her gigantic breasts.
We heard laughter from the living room. Holly was regaling Grandpa Mac, Mom, Grandma Alice, Aunt Helene, and my cousins with tales of her adventures, no doubt. It was hard to compete with stories of her shenanigans by talking about manuscript editing. Or, more like it at Franklin, booking flights for Wyatt and sitting through endless meetings where my opinion was never sought and rarely considered. Holly was somehow both easy to dismiss as too flighty and easy to envy for her carefree, full-of-fun life. I doubted she gave much thought to what reactions she elicited in others. It must have been nice inside the bubble in which she lived.
Gram turned off the water and pulled the towel out of my hands to dry her own, suds gurgling down the drain around the remaining unwashed dishes.
“Nora…”
“Gram, this isn’t about dad. I’m not crazy. I know it’s not about dad.” I leaned against the counter and looked at her with what I knew was an immature and slightly obnoxious leftover teenage air. How does family always turn you back into the person you were in adolescence?
“You say that, Nora, but is anyone else at your company insinuating themselves with the police?” So Mom had told Gram about Jack. Great.
My silence spoke for itself, and Gram continued. “No one else will be this blunt with you: you cannot make up for not knowing who killed your dad by figuring out who killed your boss.” Gram didn’t pull any punches. It was what I loved so much about her, but it was also what made her sporadically infuriating.
“No shit,” I mumbled to the floor.
“Don’t you fucking swear at me.” Gram held my gaze for a few seconds before we both broke up at her hypocrisy and famous sailor’s mouth. “What the fuck am I going to do with you, Nora?”
“I’m the worst, right?” I said, smiling.
“Yeah, no doubt about that.” Holly had bounced into the room, somehow full of energy while the rest of us battled tryptophan-induced food comas. “You are. The. Worst.” She hip bumped me playfully before eyeing the sink still full of dirty dishes. “Grandpa Mac wants to know if it’s time for pie,” she said as she quickly distanced herself to the other side of the kitchen island.
“Already? I swear that man is a bottomless pit. Just let me make coffee.” Gram’s hands were already juggling grounds, filter, and pot. “What are you going to do now that what’s-her-name’s campaign is over?” Holly had just wrapped up a stint as the social media manager for a failed New Orlean’s city council candidate. The pay was one grade below crap, she’d said when she took the job, but she got to look at Instagram, Twitter, and SnapChat all day.
“Honestly, I’m not sure,” Holly leaned on the counter, chin resting in her right hand. I could see that her nails were gnawed way down, a bad habit she was never able to shake. “I’m staying with a friend right now, and I don’t think there is any rush to leave. It could be fun to stay in New Orleans through the holidays: tour some hoity-toity houses while I have the chance. Mom just told me I could come back and stay with her again before I figure out my next move, so I might do that.” Gram smiled at the prospect of having one of her grandchildren so close to home again. It was obvious she was thrilled with the idea (even if Holly seemed a little ho-hum on it herself), but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.
“Seriously, Holly?” I knew it came out sounding judgmental.
“Yes, seriously, Nora.” She mocked.
“You’re going to move back in with Mom?” I made a face.
“Maybe. For a while. What’s the big deal?”
“Doesn’t it just seem like a step backwards? Moving back into your old bedroom with bowtie-wearing Mr. Bear and a poster of Zac Efron on the wall?”
“First of all, that poster of Zac Efron was up for, like, a minute eight years ago. And at least I’m moving. Backwards, forwards—I just don’t want to be stuck.” She looked at me pointedly. Holly definitely liked movement and change, but this was not some innocent comment about her own lifestyle preference; we both knew it was a critique of my own lack of progress.
“Girls,” Gram said sternly, nipping the potential fight in the bud. “Holly, go ask your grandfather what kind of pie he wants, even though we all know he’s going to say he wants a taste of all of them. And take your time. I need a few minutes with your sister.”
With Holly gone, Gram turned back to me. “Nobody blames you, Nora,” she said gently. I felt myself flush instantly, and my eyes well with tears. Even after all these years, almost no one spoke to me directly about what happened with Dad. Mom had, for a while, though that was mostly asking me if maybe I remembered something new. It was always a plea—something she was asking me to give her.
“Grab a towel,” Gram said, nodding toward the checkered dishcloth hanging off a hook on her cabinet.
“You know,” I complained, “after the first plate, it mostly just moves the water around. The dishes don’t actually get drier.” She snatched the towel herself and tossed it to me. She had a seemingly endless supply of identical blue and white kitchen towels that rotated through that spot on her painted-white kitchen cabinets. The door looked naked without it—like someone who always wears glasses showing up in contacts. It looks good, maybe, but jarring. Something’s missing. Also, I didn’t really feel like drying the dishes.
“Respect your elders and dry the damn dishes.” The pots and pans were in the dishwasher, which was humming away. The squeak of Gram’s sponge against stemware joined the murmur of voices from the living room to create a soothing white noise.
“All right, all right. Don’t be cranky with me.” We worked in companionable silence for a minute. “You know, it really should be Holly’s job.” Gram looked at me and rolled her eyes at my laziness. “I made the sweet potato pie!” I defended myself.
“You don’t want a couple minutes alone with your grandmother?”
“Not really.” She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t pretend I’m not about to get an earful.” My mom had warned me just before we sat down to dinner that she’d told Gram about Louisa.
“Mom!” I’d hissed, dismayed.
“She wants to know what’s going on in your life. And I’m worried that you’re too interested in this whole thing. Murder!” she added, as if I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “It’s not healthy.” The conversation had ended there, as Grandpa Mac had announced with great fanfare, as he did every year, that we were about to get a master class in “carving a bird.”
“You want an earful—” Gram now warned me.
“I definitely did not say I wanted an earful.”
“—here it comes.” I steeled myself. “What are you doing to yourself, Nora?” I stayed quiet. I knew what was coming, but I didn’t have to help wind her up. “Seriously? Getting yourself mixed up in this investigation?” Gram sighed dramatically. I thought about calling out her dramatics. Teasing her might break the tension I was feeling. Then again, it might just irritate her. I chose silence again.
“Nora,” she continued, her hands working furiously on a wine glass but her eyes on me, “You don’t have to put yourself through this.”
“Gram, I’m ok,” I said, perhaps a bit too emphatically.
“This is not yours to solve. This weight isn’t on your shoulders.”
Gram was Dad’s mom. In another family, maybe she and my mom would have drifted apart after dad’s death. It could have happened here—Mom and Gram liked each other well enough, but they weren’t natural kindred spirits. They worked hard to make sure they stayed connected though, lucky for me. She pushed a stray hair out of her eyes with her wrist, soapy water dripping down onto her large, matronly breasts. Bosoms was the right word for Gram’s chest, I thought, though she would have been offended if I’d actually said it. She would have been a looker in her youth; it didn’t take much to imagine what had attracted Grandpa Mac back in the day. The pictures I’d seen of her were evidence of how pretty she’d been. Ivory skinned and ginger like Dad; like me. Her once bright hair was now faded to a sunset version of what it had once been, but she still had enviably slim hips to offset her gigantic breasts.
We heard laughter from the living room. Holly was regaling Grandpa Mac, Mom, Grandma Alice, Aunt Helene, and my cousins with tales of her adventures, no doubt. It was hard to compete with stories of her shenanigans by talking about manuscript editing. Or, more like it at Franklin, booking flights for Wyatt and sitting through endless meetings where my opinion was never sought and rarely considered. Holly was somehow both easy to dismiss as too flighty and easy to envy for her carefree, full-of-fun life. I doubted she gave much thought to what reactions she elicited in others. It must have been nice inside the bubble in which she lived.
Gram turned off the water and pulled the towel out of my hands to dry her own, suds gurgling down the drain around the remaining unwashed dishes.
“Nora…”
“Gram, this isn’t about dad. I’m not crazy. I know it’s not about dad.” I leaned against the counter and looked at her with what I knew was an immature and slightly obnoxious leftover teenage air. How does family always turn you back into the person you were in adolescence?
“You say that, Nora, but is anyone else at your company insinuating themselves with the police?” So Mom had told Gram about Jack. Great.
My silence spoke for itself, and Gram continued. “No one else will be this blunt with you: you cannot make up for not knowing who killed your dad by figuring out who killed your boss.” Gram didn’t pull any punches. It was what I loved so much about her, but it was also what made her sporadically infuriating.
“No shit,” I mumbled to the floor.
“Don’t you fucking swear at me.” Gram held my gaze for a few seconds before we both broke up at her hypocrisy and famous sailor’s mouth. “What the fuck am I going to do with you, Nora?”
“I’m the worst, right?” I said, smiling.
“Yeah, no doubt about that.” Holly had bounced into the room, somehow full of energy while the rest of us battled tryptophan-induced food comas. “You are. The. Worst.” She hip bumped me playfully before eyeing the sink still full of dirty dishes. “Grandpa Mac wants to know if it’s time for pie,” she said as she quickly distanced herself to the other side of the kitchen island.
“Already? I swear that man is a bottomless pit. Just let me make coffee.” Gram’s hands were already juggling grounds, filter, and pot. “What are you going to do now that what’s-her-name’s campaign is over?” Holly had just wrapped up a stint as the social media manager for a failed New Orlean’s city council candidate. The pay was one grade below crap, she’d said when she took the job, but she got to look at Instagram, Twitter, and SnapChat all day.
“Honestly, I’m not sure,” Holly leaned on the counter, chin resting in her right hand. I could see that her nails were gnawed way down, a bad habit she was never able to shake. “I’m staying with a friend right now, and I don’t think there is any rush to leave. It could be fun to stay in New Orleans through the holidays: tour some hoity-toity houses while I have the chance. Mom just told me I could come back and stay with her again before I figure out my next move, so I might do that.” Gram smiled at the prospect of having one of her grandchildren so close to home again. It was obvious she was thrilled with the idea (even if Holly seemed a little ho-hum on it herself), but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.
“Seriously, Holly?” I knew it came out sounding judgmental.
“Yes, seriously, Nora.” She mocked.
“You’re going to move back in with Mom?” I made a face.
“Maybe. For a while. What’s the big deal?”
“Doesn’t it just seem like a step backwards? Moving back into your old bedroom with bowtie-wearing Mr. Bear and a poster of Zac Efron on the wall?”
“First of all, that poster of Zac Efron was up for, like, a minute eight years ago. And at least I’m moving. Backwards, forwards—I just don’t want to be stuck.” She looked at me pointedly. Holly definitely liked movement and change, but this was not some innocent comment about her own lifestyle preference; we both knew it was a critique of my own lack of progress.
“Girls,” Gram said sternly, nipping the potential fight in the bud. “Holly, go ask your grandfather what kind of pie he wants, even though we all know he’s going to say he wants a taste of all of them. And take your time. I need a few minutes with your sister.”
With Holly gone, Gram turned back to me. “Nobody blames you, Nora,” she said gently. I felt myself flush instantly, and my eyes well with tears. Even after all these years, almost no one spoke to me directly about what happened with Dad. Mom had, for a while, though that was mostly asking me if maybe I remembered something new. It was always a plea—something she was asking me to give her.